Every generation
has its marker, the assassination
of President Kennedy and the 9/11 attacks are among
a very few events that were instantly understood to
be seared in the minds of our entire nation as
changing everything. On January twentieth
2009, the Inauguration of President Obama was
instantly understood by our nation, and many others
on the planet, to be an event that changed
everything as well. With
the TV cameras focused on the Capitol, Barack
Hussein Obama emerged onto the steps to become our
president. I was surprised by my own tears, at
that moment, as my mind raced back 48 years to the
summer 1960 when I was 13 years old and participated
in my first Civil Rights March.

As a child of
World War II Holocaust refugees, I was raised to
believe that "silence in the face of other
people's suffering is unconscionable." As
the Rev. Martin Niemöller so famously wrote about
Nazi tyranny, "First
they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak
out --Because I was not a Socialist. Then they
came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak
out --Because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not
speak out --Because I was not a Jew. Then they
came for me -- and there was no one left to speak
for me."

So, one fine summer day,
in the year before our president was born, I
and a fellow Jewish son of refugees righteously rode
our bicycles through the quiet postwar white suburbs
of Long Island to participate in an NAACP picket-line protest. Angry bigots were outraged that
two little white boys dared to march with
blacks. I was hit in the head with a
rock. In the moments before, I was filled with
innocent youthful idealism for the future; in the
moments afterwards, I understood the reality of
discrimination. And I began a lifetime of
determined activism. When I saw Barack Obama
emerge to be sworn in as president, that long ago
moment flashed in my mind, and I wept. At
last.

When Senator Diane
Feinstein stepped to the podium to start the
Inauguration proceedings, my mind flashed back
again, to the summer of 1978 when she stood on the
steps of San Francisco's City Hall and announced to
a horrified city that Mayor George Moscone and
Supervisor Harvey Milk had been assassinated.
I have a lot of historical baggage; I'm an old
man. These were the things that went through
my mind as I watched our new President be sworn in.

Rev. Rick Warren gave his
invocation, and I was offended by his inappropriate
ignorant arrogance in his proclaiming or claiming a
Christian propriatarianism of
our American moment of joy. I, as a Jewish
child of refugees, volunteered to serve my county in
our armed forces for ten years; and he tells me this
is a Christian nation? The father of the man
about to become our president was a Muslim; how
could this detail escape Warren's expressed respect,
I wondered. A dear friend of mine, a newly
minted American citizen, is a Hindu. What must
he have thought hearing Warren's words, I
wondered. Appalling! In contrast to that
ghastly invocation, moments later our president
said, "For
we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength,
not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians
and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and non-believers"

And Arethra
Franklin sang her heart out bringing joy to our
nation; and I knew at that moment that the American
flag was once again ours. I could carry it
proudly, as I always have, as a gay veteran in
parades without people wondering what my political
beliefs were...or something.

When our
president put his
hand on Lincoln's Bible, I got goose bumps; I'm just
telling you what happened. And when he spoke, I
suddenly knew what hope meant. As a child of
refugees from tyranny, as the son of an illegal
immigrant (my mother--who cleaned toilets to earn a
living when she first arrived in America) I
understood what President Obama meant when he said,
"This is the price and the promise of
citizenship." As he went on, I
wondered, What will this cold new dawn in
American history bring? For the first
time since I was a boy, so long ago, filled with
idealism riding my bicycle to the next town to join
a picket line, I had hope, real hope. For me,
it is not just about him being the embodiment of
hope; it is that a majority of Americans had the
courage to vote for him and make the beginning of
the end of hate happen.

Rev.
Lowery's benediction, blessed with the wisdom and cantankerous
freedom of age, was the epitome of interfaith
inclusiveness. He began, "God of our
weary years, God of our silent tears, thou, who has
brought us thus far along the way, thou, who has by
thy might led us into the light, keep us forever in
the path we pray." And near closing he
intoned, "And
now, Lord, in the complex arena of human relations,
help us to make choices on the side of love, not
hate; on the side of inclusion, not exclusion;
tolerance, not intolerance.And
as we leave this mountain top, help us to hold on to
the spirit of fellowship and the oneness of our
family. Let us take that power back to our homes,
our workplaces, our churches, our temples, our
mosques, or wherever we seek your will."
With no disrespect for our president at all, Pastor Lowery's benediction wins the prize for the best
spoken words of the day, in my view. His elder
statesmanlike timbre and text brought my mind back
to the days of King and Kennedy, when erudite men
such as they could stir people's souls with every
breath of liberation they uttered.

As the day
progressed, my mind
flashed back again, some twenty years, wishing my
lover who died of AIDS, a beautiful man of many colors who immigrated
here from the Philippines, had lived to see this moment.

And, aside
from having to save the world and the economy, our
president has promised to end another minor detail
of discrimination by signing the repeal of the Don't
Ask Don't Tell policy. As a gay veteran who
served in silence for ten years, during and after
Vietnam, that means a lot to me.